


The Bard-Off

by newisalwaysbetter



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mention of Canonical Death, POV Flynn, a quiet night in the bunker, alcohol mention, amy is a perfect wingman, background garcy, bunker family, flynn and connor are needlessly dramatic, flynn has emotions, gratuitous shakespeare, shakespeare-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 20:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newisalwaysbetter/pseuds/newisalwaysbetter
Summary: It's late in the bunker, and the team has had a few, and Connor's more theatrical side has been unleashed. That's not to say Flynn has let him off without a fight...(Bunker family late-night fluff, with a hint of garcy, background riya, and plenty of gratuitous Bard.)





	The Bard-Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnUnpredictableMe (DraejonSoul)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraejonSoul/gifts).

> Written after a request for a drunk bard-off between Connor and Flynn. This is entirely the fault of Daiji's genius, and I had the Best Possible Time with gratuitous Shakespeare. :)

_To be, or not to be: that is the question._

The words, memorized in his youth and retained as surely the sunlight of ten thousand mornings, had been least on his mind in the moment he’d most needed them.

Despite tonight’s similar circumstances, Flynn has never been so grateful that conscience made a coward of him.

Connor Mason has never looked more magnificent, swaying atop the rickety coffee table, with his tablet in one hand and a gold-plated flask in the other. He’s gesturing grandly, midway through a speech_._

“Old men forget,” Connor continues, his voice dwindling on the line. His face wrinkles for a moment, eyes moistening, and for a moment Flynn feels the tug of age in his bones--they will die first, the two of them. For a time he had expected at any moment to make his quietus.

But not here--not when Connor straightens, gathering his ragged dignity about him, and resumes in a voice trembling with emotion. “Yet, all shall be forgot, but he’ll remember--with advantages--what feats he did, that day.”

Yes, not here; not with Rufus slouched beside him and Jiya draped across both their laps. _Thy friendship makes us fresh. _Not with the bunker common room plunged in a darkness which softens the sharp edges of reality; with the only light, a flashlight held by Wyatt in the nearby chair, wobbling as Connor’s emotion reaches new pitch and Wyatt stifles a snort in his hand. _So full of artless jealousy is guilt... _Not with Jess returning from the kitchen with a new case of beer. _The wheel is come full circle. _Not with Amy sprawled across the floor by his feet. _Be all my sins remembered._ Not with Lucy warming the couch cross-legged beside him, her shining eyes rapt with attention. _O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright..._

“We few; we..._happy_ few, we band of brothers.” 

In a sense, Flynn supposes, he is already buried here; in the earth, with the rest of his family. 

Connor finishes his speech and steps down from the table, with far less than his usual grace. Amy springs up into the light, catching Connor’s arm before he stumbles and plucking his tablet away from him.

“Aroint thee, witch,” Connor mumbles, fumbling after it.

“Sorry.” Amy pecks Connor on the cheek, and helps him into one of the more comfortable chairs. “I never aroint on the first date.” 

Connor, muttering something about thankless children, begins to snore.

Flynn is thinking of that himself, when Amy foists the tablet into his hands, grinning. “Here’s a line for you.” 

“No, no.” Flynn gestures with his empty beer bottle. “I’m done for the night.” Not long ago, his bitter rendition of _Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow_ had been voted superior to Mason’s hammy _All the world’s a stage._

Amy perches brazenly on Flynn’s knee, crossing her arms. “Yeah? Do that one. I dare you.”

(Jiya, Jessica, and Wyatt emit a low chorus of_ oooohs._ Rufus snuffles where he’s asleep on Jiya’s shoulder.)

Flynn scans the passage. It’s _Tempest,_ it’s Ferdinand, it’s...

He can wield his gaze like a knife when necessary, but Amy strikes back with soft eyes, and Flynn surrenders. “Methinks,” Flynn enunciates in a low voice, “thou art a general offense, and every man should beat thee.” 

“Whatever, old man.” Grinning, Amy exchanges a fist bump with Jiya. “C’mon, _please._”

Flynn stands, with the room dimly shifting around him. A warm hand wraps into his, and Flynn looks down to find Lucy’s dark eyes dancing with laughter. “You can stand.” 

It’s half promise, half question. Flynn doesn’t trust himself to speak. With a nod, he mounts the table. Wyatt’s flashlight flickers into his eyes.

“I am, in my condition, a prince, Miranda.” Flynn begins uncertainly. His old director had used to say that he had a voice for tragedy. “I do think, a king!--I would not so, and would no more endure...this wooden slavery, than to suffer the flesh-fly blow my mouth.” Flynn pauses on a shuddering breath, ignoring Jess’s rowdy wolf whistle. This next line will undo him.

Then his half-focused gaze meets Lucy’s, and she nods.

“Hear my soul speak.” Flynn’s shaking gaze returns to the page. 

_The very instant I saw you, did my heart fly to your service._


End file.
